I'll Burn This Whole City Down
by Akkibai
Summary: The back streets of this city brand themselves with neon glosigns, taking so much pride in the filth that lines it. They call the bars and alleys where skinners used to fight, home.  Home, gang-ridden, home.  There was no escape, no end for them. Save one
1. You Belong To The Gang

_**I'll burn this whole city down**_… for you

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><p><strong><em>You belong to the gang.<em>**

**_And you say you can't break away._**

**_But I'm here with my hands on my heart._**

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><p>The body and the blood. The rummaging of them both was not the worst that could happen. The worst hadn't happened. It <em>couldn't<em> happen. It didn't. The red ran warm over skin and made filler for the cracks on the dirty concrete. Still not the worst that could happen. There was so much blood. Not even red and beautiful, as would suit the owner best. Muddled and stony blood could dig a channel into the cold-hard grit beneath them. That would not be the worst that could happen. Now it could run a deep passage with all the compassion it ran for. It was useless there, occupied in the body, the cell where it could show no passion, it was much better hemorrhaged here, out in the open. The wound cried innocence, but his composure, the bleeder's, was more than enough to be the worst.

No, this was the worst part. As he held the other beneath him, mind in turmoil, body at blank, he saw that the other was his complete opposite. The body and blood was still convulsing in it's solace hours, but he looked so at peace in those eyes. He wished he could trade places with him, and be the one to decompose into the dirt. He didn't deserve it.

This was the worst part, when his heart started breaking, because he never even had a chance to show him the halves.

**"**Get yer ass down 'ere, Gamzee! Don' be fuckin' with the Roll-call! It's unconscionable!" The faux-irate man stood at the bottom of the staircase, arms folded and lenient against the railings. It was a particularly wide staircase, but it didn't suit the little man at the bottom, portraying the foul language.

"Woah, Motherfucker. I'm comin', just had a late mornings'all." He stumbled down the dangerous-terrain that was stairs, hands balled up to his eyes as he still saw sleeper-dots.  
>"What's for breakfast, brother?"<p>

"*sigh* … Yep. Yeah, _brother_, right. I thought I'd gotten it in your mind to quit that callin' people!"

"Nah brother. That ain't the point of being Family, y'know?" He smiled , well, attempted to. It came out looking like a 2 a.m. smirk. No less appropriate however, it always seemed like dusk to Gamzee.

He traipsed out to the kitchen-area directly across the room beyond the open living-room. He didn't need to, nor did he, look for where he was going. The lazy boy only studied his feet as he traced the familiar path.

"Good Mornin', Night Clowl! Hehe, I mean clown. No, Owl. Oh you know, anyways, how'd you wake up?… so late, I mean. You missed breakfast, so you get scraps today."

Gamzee groaned but crossed himself by giving a sincere smile at the bright, luminescent face in front of him. After all, how could you pull a long face in front of Feferi?

"You too, Fef"- he paused to rub a ringlet out of his hair behind his head. "Why scraps though, chica? You know we got plenty o' rations , heh. Not just pies." Fef pursed her lips some, and dotingly put her arm to her hip. "Oh glub, you and those seal-y cakes, or whatever. Come sit down, hon! Have some REEL food." Gamzee half-rolled his eyes with an enthusiastic smile. He was over-accustomed to her 'Sea-puns'. She did love the sea.

He indeed, proceeded to sit his lazy arse down at his spot on the table. The others had gone out, except for perhaps Equius as there was a brash mechanical noise out in the garage. "So. We're outta food, but I get to eat the last of them miracles?" Fef nodded gracefully, handing the last platter of food's excuse over. "Mhmm!~ We gotta get our sail-ves over to…. Well you know, the downtown area. *sigh" Her complexion suddenly dulled, and she looked years older. The boy also twitched a brow, forcing his food down more forcefully now. He held himself quite laxly. It was an awkward wirey frame for a boy his age, you could tell in the way his arm hovered above the table, the one holding the fork. "We're doin' the fuck ever what now, Fef?" The boy from before on the staircase, who had called down Gamzee now sauntered over picking at his teeth. "Oh. Hello Eridan. Yeah, you sea, we're fish outta supplies. Methinks Brining out every night isn't a healthy upkeep, so you better go get some new ones soon." She replied to this one a bit more auto-toned. Eridan quit picking at himself infront of his pocket-mirror and "UUUUGHHH! Noooo…." He ran his free hand over his face as if he was trying to peel back the skin on his lips. A… messy facepalm, if you will? "I- uh. Noooo-" _'Would you like some fresh fucking Cheese with that g'damn wine, Eridan?' _thought Gamzee.

"Fine. Fine! Whatever, food's food. Shit is… shit. Rivalries are just that." He threw his hands up to some imaginary ceiling messiah, giving up his soul.

"Tsk tsk, Eridan. You know you don't have to go around flaunting your skirmishes like they're medals of honor. Just… **sigh** I don't know, do your best this time? No instigating… please?"

Eridan grabbed a chunk of rye off Gamzee's plate, rolling his eyes in the process and talking between mouthfuls. "Yeh shore, whatever pleases your _grandeur_, Fef." He scoffed. Gamzee raised a defensive hand from where he sat, trying not to pollinate the air with unnecessary tension. "I'll fucking accompany a brother, Fef. Don't you worry your pretty head about that. I'll take care of him if he pulls a fuckin' macho move, hehe"

Eridan stopped mid-chew to glare at the other, albeit Gamzee wasn't looking.

"I hate you, you know."

Gamzee took it in stride. "Yep, but the Low-bloods hate you more."

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><p>Author's Notes:<p>

SO KIDS! Welcome to greasers r us. Not necessarily though xD My only disclaimer on this whole little diddy is, It's based off The Decemberist's "O Valencia!". Good song, best song. It is that song. Go look it up, lest you be baffled by the occurances in this fic xD. So yeah, before my jig gets upped, it doesn't belong to me, The Decemberists are all the g-anus behind this. c:  
>THANK YOU, REVIEWS ARE MiRaClEs~<p> 


	2. And Our Families Can't Agree

_**I'll burn this whole city down**_… for you

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><p><em>And our family's can't agree<em>

_I'm your brother's sworn enemy._

_But…_

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><p>Dave wandered the dimly-lit corridors of 2 a.m. Signless manor. It was a familiar journey, from his dorm to the kitchen down the hall, none of those skeevy stairs to –<p>

"Fuck."

The boy slunk right through the first step and foot-fell a few feet more down.

He forgot about those stairs.

"Mornin' much?" He had found his footing again at the bottom of the rather narrow staircase, and was now faced with something perhaps even skeevier.

The clanking of brass on metal rang out statically. "Sup SpiderBitch." The woman at the bottom of the stairs gave him no satisfaction in taking offense at such an amorous pet name. Not even a flinch. At any rate, she held the upper hand. The upper, brass-knuckle laden hand. A walking contradiction, if only she was walking, the spider bitch was stirring a pot of what looked like pancake batter attired in a big blue box-cut tee, orange shorts, and brass knuckles. Four on each hand, a total of eight.

_Shit, she treats those things like they were shot out of jesus' metaphoric asshole. It's a bad caliber of Irony._

Dave took his thoughts to the table, where he spotted a fuming fuckass with a cherry coke in his left and a silent, hunched over boy with a shot of red-bull out in front of him.

"Rise and gogfuckin' shine, morning crow. I hope you're irony or what the fuck ever can figure out that sarcasm, 'cos I'm in no mood for daft word infidelities."

"Oh lord allmanly, what forest's found it's way up your ass now, Karkat?"

"The High and mighty tightwad blood's fucking forest. That's the fuck who. I refuse to believe that you, as unhealthily time-obsessed as you are, forgot that we have to cross try-hard turf today. The dealie. Yeah, you remember that shit? That's today. And frankly, the way you pay your due respects to the occasion is quite flattering. Waking up shouldn't be a 2 hour job, Fuckass, so dress your ass up pretty for the royal flutter-rumps and I'll fuckin' lead us through. Alright?"

I'm not surprised news of endangered species is all that's soliciting sweet space on our network. Karkat's got all the fucking forests up his ass. All of them. And the vile ass stench is probably knocking them extinct one by one.

"Yeah, sure, what the fuck ever. I got it. You want a side of dry ice for those tits, sir?"

The addressee turned a haughty lip and took to sulking away into another room, mug in hand.

"I'm not handing out charity fucks here! Just make dicking choppy with that order, Strider!" He shouted over his shoulder, out the door.

"He's in a, uh, pretty good mood today, I think. You definitely, um, know how to cheer him up, Dave."

Dave bent a concerned brow beneath the safety shield of his glasses. He could care. Unlike Karkat, he could care. Beneath those shades he could care, that is.

"Yeah Bro, that's fucking quality mood Vantas for you." The blonde sidestepped the octo-bitch with bowl in hand, and made way for the more important of the trio. He stopped to sling his weight behind his chair and ran his usual hand through the boy's shaggy, half-shaved head.

He knew this morning routine, if only this simple little privilege, took some of the world off the other's shoulders.

"Oh you guys sicken me, that boy's piiiiiiiiissed and you all know it. Heh, it's sort of cute actually."

The owner of the sauntering voice found her way through the bustle of the kitchen. Contradicting the lone kitchen, stood forgotten cardboard boxes, glass bottles of past spirits, the common household rubble that made the neater members of the household throw their multi-colored shades down in disgust.

"Here, Tavvy, bon appetite." She flaunted the second-hand French she absorbed from watching her cheesy Nic Cage flicks.

"I served up another dose of eggs for you. Protein irons in the fire, and what not. You'll be sure to wear the lucky bands I made for you for the fight today, right?"

The statement was just that, a statement. She wasn't asking.

"I… uh! Sis, er, Vris, you know I don't really want…Well, I mean, I think, I don't really want to-"

"What kid-brother says holds fucking truth, Vriska. You know, as much as I absolutely love seeing Tav's ass get handed to him, today I'm making damn sure that no one's starting any shit as long as we can help our civil asses. I'll save a fight for that clownmosexual if I see him though. Hate that fucking bro doucher."

Vriska tried to hide her disappointment by pursing her lips, instead dividing her attention between the two and the bowl of batter still in hand. You could see the eclectic, mis-matched, diabolic gears turning.

"…. Here, Tavvy, try!" There again, the statement method reared it's ugly head as she shoved the splintery batter spoon into his mouth.

"Nngh!"

" Yeah, I get it. If there's no fight outside, then there can be fucking chick fits in here, no. Tav doesn't wanna fight and that's final. To hell with all, I'm not letting a fucking stub on his toe come to happen. That's my word, and my word's law because unfortunately the whole parent marriage thing doesn't come with a free dosage of steaming step-sibling-power."

A rant later about comparative authorities involving sheriffs, the po-po, and government, and Vriska decided to have her two cents in. She went for a whole eight though.

" Shut your noise chute, Strider, you're not gonna keep his ass on a leash forever y'know. He has to leeeeeeeearn to fight eventually! Fight! Fight Tavvy! That's what you want, right? Do you want to fight?"

The spoon was pulled back just conveniently to allow Vriska's point to be proved, or else.

"I….. No. I really don't want to fight anymore."

Dave shrugged with as much fake devil-may-care as he could muster, pretending Tav's word, proving him right, didn't matter at all. However, he couldn't hide the cocky grin and arms folded behind his head that read: "Hey, Kid don't wanna fuckin' fight. What're you gonna do? Go cry about it, spider bitch."

**'I've been fighting my whole life. For the right reason. This, this is, definitely not the right reason.'**

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><p>Author's Notes:<p>

Hells yes, enter the swwaggin' wwagon. And who other than the lowwbloods as the royal passengers? Or maybe... /not/ so royal heheh. Unfortunately, there's a lot of privvy v.i.p to that particular wagon :O Especially for spidery bitches.  
>ANYWHORE. I'm surprised with the attention this junk got! c:<br>THANK YOU, REVIEWS ARE mIRAcLeS~


	3. I'll Shout

_**I'll burn this whole city down**_… for you

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><p><em>I'll shout<em>

_Out my love_

_To the stars_

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><p>The holiday bumble of the bazaars and market squares filled the air with a charming toxic sludge.<p>

The charcoal of car fumes.

_**Makes my nose motherfucking twitch.**_

The chimes of children throwing balls and fits.

_**They're, uh, so cute! Running around like that.**_

The vaguely familiar spectrum of faces.

_**It's motherfucking miracles, bro.**_

Even the sinfully forsaken back alleys where skinners used to fight.

_**I, uh, remember the dude brawls that Dave and Karkat always won against the bimbo-bloods here.**_

All of which were tell-tale signs of no man's land.

No clan lived here, and god forbid they did, for pacts declaring Hell to be frozen over before any gangs settled there had been made. These pacts were the closest thing to civil law that the groups had ever come by, this is to say, the deals were at least enforced.

Fortunately, (or unfortunately if you want to measure by degree of strife and swollen eyes) there was no amendment that stated one such member of a clan couldn't swing by for business or visiting purposes.

Both of these methodic loopholes were being put into play by either side of opposing kin. The Highbloods were in no man's land for strictly business purposes, and the lowbloods in town for a covert, private visit.

Dave kept the key terms 'Covert' and 'Private' in mind when regretting his forever giving and giving heart. Tavros had managed to swing him into letting him tag along. 'Tag' also proved, ironically, a very good term for it. For after stepping foot out the bus, the most Tavros could do was spend a few good solid minutes admiring the towering metal landscapes and rolling retail-houses on wheels before bumping back along to his older brother. To his housed, over-naïve mind, every little glimmer off a window pane fooled him into making believe of suburban fairies darting left and right. He could barely keep up.

Gamzee, on the Highblood's end of the spectrum, needed tangible help keeping up. Not literally however, as his brain was for the most part, all that was lagging. To his affable, easy-going mind, every little glint off an industrial window pane made him fall deeper into his religious relics. Miracles. Eridan on the other hand, being the more cutting-edge-witted of the two, kept a tight clutch on the cash. He'd lower the I.Q. of the whole market by handing over that stack of loot to the dainty clown. Gamzee'd been put in charge of simply holding the list and looking out for things. That was it. The mere simple task, that obvious as it may seem, was a bit too far fetched for Gamzee's mind at the moment.

Every little thing with color to it's build, and shine to it's structure caught his attention, his respect, and his blessing as a 'miracle.'

One lone thing however, cured him all at once of his lack of ability to pay attention.

All he knew at that moment, was a small figure, struggling to stride through the crowds.

All he was familiar with, or sad lack there of of familiarity with the figure, was the way the figure carried himself. It screamed for deliverance, in great need of a miracle. However, what had actually managed to hold his attention, was the grand layer of suave happiness that had been coated on top of this. It was, or at least made a great excuse for, genuine happiness.

He wanted to find out. He wanted to be all about him, to study the figure with detailed precision in a form of avante garde writing he called slam poetry. The picture of high cheek bones, a permanently frost-bitten nose, and a half lopped up Mohawk branded itself on the insides of his eyelids whenever he blinked.

Apparently the image was burned into the other highblood's as well, but under a different standpoint. He scuttled to the corner of a tent, tugging the corner of his cape along with him because Gog-forbid any common folk's muddy shoes lay prints on it. Forget the looming danger of a rampant member of the rival clan coming head-on towards Gamzee, Eridan had himself and his cape to worry over. The clown on the recieving emd of the dagger-glare through shades and violent stepping-to combo stood his ground, more out of a distracted haze than manly bravado.

Next thing he knew, it was as if time had never existed, as if it had never been a thing. Time wasn't a thing. The space/time had skipped a scratch on the record it was scripted on and in return, a fist to the nose was all the clown was getting. His love of high fidelity was still high not only on those discs however, but on his friends too. It wasn't Eridan's hand who had collided with the highblood's nose, it was a fellow he was already all too familiar with.

Dave Strider. A man of little words and even fewer bullshits to take.

The illusion of a casual on the down-low day's out twisted and bent to fit a very extreme definition of 'down low.' In fact the only thing 'down low' seemed to be the blows being dealt by the opposing force. The two soon blurred as a measurable net of safety was cleared around them from the crowd.

Gamzee felt numb now.

His blows were a revolving pattern of hit or miss, but honestly, most of the time he was too busy dodging blows and risking his forearms as shields. He was actually on the defensive. The irony of it would make Dave glow with envy. Wasn't it Dave who had sworn to keep the other from trouble come what may? And wasn't it him putting on the gloves now and wrecking the other's shit in the ring?

He figured the least he could do was stand guard of himself, and try not to come too far into blows.

Dave wanted to exchange the sickest of quality blows with the other bastard. The sweet sweat drops forming his pledge of utter ass-handing. He saw irony in the fact that he'd only come this close to violence with the singular most repugnant joker he'd ever layed eyes on and no one more. It was a vile sort of grace the way the pair's movements hazed together. They danced an eclectic, un-coordinated dance with the pounding of fists on their chests for a rhythm.

The spectators cooed and made childish urging gestures with their arms. The only two sensible enough of the crowd to feel the need to break them up were the only ones who generally cared for either party of the brawl respectively. While Eridan was more in the mindset of 'Don' break anyfin, dumpass!', Tavros on the other hand, only wanted to steal his brother away from the fight and abscond till kingdom come. Running for the hills wasn't an option however, until the idle high blood took the initiative.

"Now we don' wan' you so much as stealing a glance till we've reached a ceasefire, alright kid?"

"Eeep! Uh, I um! Really don't think this is a thing that'll"

"Cod, you low bloods have the listening skills of deafness impersonated hung out to dry."

He called out the man delivering the beat downs from across the crowd.

Albeit the tactics were harsh, (because who wouldn't love being seized by the arms and locked under a death grip to the throat?) the means justified their ends. Both members of the clash died down to bitter tangles, a mere spark of the former ill fires. Gamzee, being held by the collar of his shirt which had managed to earn some new rips, eyed the other high blood with concern and confusion. Mostly confusion. Had he lost his chance to prove he could keep atleast Eridan from a fight?

"I've showed you up, so my job's fucking done here." The blonde spat, sidestepping the other with an acrid taste to his words. They burned a bit into the wheels that still spun under Gamzee's mind. With a devil may care stance, he brushed the non-existent specks of dirt from his shoulders and, as a strider does, strode fluently up to the high blood holding his brother captive.

The crowd starting losing density quick, as if the mere loss of fist-to-face ratio put them off. It was still a hazardous crew to get through though. He pushed past hordes of them to get to the other.

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><p>Author's Notes:<p>

Pfft, it's like 2 a.m. and I gots me some finals or what the fuck ever tommorow. Yeah, okay, thanks for wrecking my shit out to oblivion, school. I thought me and education were tight, but you know, just like these kids, a fist to the face is all it takes. So due to that, updates will be sloooow, but thank you for all the positive feedback, mates!  
>THANK YOU, REVIEWS ARE MirAcLeS~<p> 


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